paulet yet hung from his shoulder.
He tore it off and threw it out into the lake. A little splash, and it
was gone. "Good-night, Mademoiselle,--good-night."

He turned away. The maid leaned forward and called. Her voice would
not come. She called again and again. Then he heard, for he stood
motionless.

"M'sieu!"

He came back slowly, and stood waiting. She was leaning back on her
hands. Her hair had fallen over her face, and she shook it back,
gazing up and trying to speak.

"You said--you said, the end--"

He hesitated, as if he dared not meet his thoughts.

"You said--See," she fumbled hastily at her bosom, "see, I have kept
it."

She was holding something up to him. In the dim light he could not
make it out. He took it and held it up. It was the dried stem and the
crumbling blossom of a daisy. For a moment he kept it there, then,
while he looked, he reached into his pocket and drew out the other.

"Yes," he said, "yes--" His voice trembled; his hand shook. Her hair
had fallen again, and she was trying to fasten it back. He looked at
her, almost fiercely, but now her eyes were hidden. "We will go to
Frontenac;" he said; "we will go to Frontenac, you and I. But they
shall not get you." He caught the hands that were braiding her hair,
and held them in his rough grip. "It is too late. Let them break my
sword, if they will, still they shall not get you."

Her head dropped upon his hands, and for the second time since those
days at Onondaga, he felt her tears. For a moment they were
motionless; he erect, looking out to the pole-star and over the water
that stretched far away to the stone fort, she sobbing and clinging to
his scarred hands. Then a desperate look came into his eyes, and he
dropped on one knee and caught her shoulders and held her tightly,
close against him.

"See," he said, with the old mad ring in his voice, "see what a
soldier I am! See how I keep my trust! But now--but now it is too late
for them all. I am still a soldier, and I can fight, Valerie. And God
will be good to us. God grant that we are doing right. There is no
other way."

"No," she whispered after him; "there is no other way."

CHAPTER XIX.

FRONTENAC.

The sun was dropping behind the western forests. From the lodges and
cabins of the friendly Indians about the fort rose a hundred thin
columns of smoke. Long rows of bateaux and canoes lined the beach
below the log palisade; and others drew near the shore, laden wi